


You So Impolitely Walked Into My Dreams

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom Arthur, Daydreaming, Dirty Talk, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Pining Arthur, Post-Inception, Pre-Inception, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Frustration, Top Eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:32:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is so hard up for Eames, it's driving him to distraction.</p><p>"Professionals don’t go around sporting erections on the job."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whenever You Touch Me...

**Author's Note:**

> Chronologically set before "Twitch" and leads up to the start of that story.

Professionals don’t go around sporting erections on the job.

This is the flash of brilliance that occurs to Arthur as he watches Eames out of the corner of his eye. This bit of genius about hard-ons and work and how professionals don’t do that. Well, maybe sex professionals do, but that’s hardly an exception worth thinking about. Especially since now Arthur is thinking about Eames as a sex professional. And nothing as mundane as a male stripper. Eames would make a fabulous stripper, certainly, with those shoulders oiled up and put up on display in a darkly lit club. But if stripper-Eames would be a sensation, prostitute-Eames would be a motherfucking prodigy.

Arthur allows himself two minutes of mental downtime to consider it. Opening the door to his—hideously expensive and therefore impressive—hotel room to find all of _that_ waiting on the other side. Pouty lips and solid body clad in tight clothes meant to showcase all the best parts. His for the night. Arthur will welcome him inside like a gentleman, offer him a drink. They’ll talk about literature and other meaningless chatter, both of them coyly pretending like the night is about anything other than shameless, anonymous sex.

Once they’ve finished their wine, Arthur will ask him to strip and lay him out on the bed. He’ll fuck those lips—no asking, this time—and put his hands wherever he wants. He’ll fold that powerful body over the end of the bed and spend ages thrusting into tight, slick heat. He paid for the whole night, after all, paid for the right to string them both out over hours of hedonistic pleasure. To bite on pink nipples while riding Eames into the eight-hundred thread count. It will be worth every pen—

“You ready, mate?”

Arthur blinks.

“Seriously, now. These state secrets aren’t going to steal themselves.” Eames gives him a jaunty grin and saunters over to where the rest of the team is gathering.

Two minutes are up.

Arthur is a professional, so he buttons up his suit jacket and hopes the dark fabric masks his half-swollen cock. At least long enough to get through this meeting. The team only has one more week to prepare for an extraction on a former U.S. senator, and they need him focused on his job. Not indulging in naughty fantasies of a completely uninterested colleague.

He has long since come to terms with the knowledge that he is stupidly attracted to Eames, who—despite their effective working relationship—has never been Arthur’s biggest fan. He knows Eames respects him, prefers to work with him over other point men, but Eames has always been openly disdainful of him as a person.

So he keeps the attraction bottled up and is very careful to keep his feelings and his work separate. Because, however willing he is to make calculated risks on the job, his love life is another matter entirely. And one painfully awkward rejection per lifetime is more than enough, thank you very much.

 

 

Working with Eames always frays Arthur’s composure. Those arms, the tattoos, Arthur’s classically American weakness for British accents. And the mouth… that mouth is obscene.

It’s ridiculously easy for Eames to turn him on—and shut him down—without even realizing. And working in close quarters with someone that makes him rabidly horny doesn’t do any favors for his already short temper.

Their interactions become a sadly predictable song and dance.

Eames will needle him for being too rigid. Arthur will remind him that a point man’s role requires exacting diligence. Eames will then call him an unoriginal drudge and scorn his life choices. Arthur will then be forced to point out the many ways in which Eames’ own life choices have led to death threats and time spent in Asian jail cells. At which point, Eames will then look at him with true anger and, inexplicably, pity—which inevitably makes Arthur want to push Eames to his knees and demonstrate just what he can do with that fucking pity. Not that he ever does or will. Instead, he summons up a veneer of calm from some bitchslapped depth of his psyche and calls an end to the meeting.

Rinse and repeat over the course of years and various jobs. It's hardly amicable, but it's how they are. Arthur accepts that.

 

* * *

 

The Fischer job almost kills him, in so many ways.

It’s not the first time he’s worked jobs back-to-back, but this particular lineup pushes even his equilibrium. First the cock-up for Cobol, then the utter failure with Saito, crowned by the descent into madness that is inception. Crash-course training with a completely green architect, riding herd on Cobb’s impending psychotic break, dodging—and hiding—a few attempts on his life when Cobol gets too close for comfort. And then, of course, working with Eames.

Eames, who seems especially antagonistic towards him for reasons he can’t discern—save a pathological dislike of everything Arthur does. Eames who delights in mocking him in front of the new girl and who slaps back every gesture of companionship he tries to make.

_Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated._

Arthur’s not so good with people. People respect him, always, but almost never like him. He knows this. He accepts this. It’s why he leaves the extracting to people like Dom and Eames and sticks to the backstage dealings. But sometimes he wishes he has what they have. Sometimes he tries to be more likable. He usually fails. For years, he’s been frustrated by his inability to strike up even a basic friendship with Eames, despite knowing a platonic friendship would gut him over time.

It's a special kind of agony when they use his subconscious to practice. Arthur nearly sprains his mind, keeping every stray thought and impulse strangled by the focus and discipline that has become his trademark. Traits he’s perfected over the many years that he’s been harboring these needs. He imagines what Eames would say if he knew that Arthur owes his reputation to a compulsive need to suck his cock. Probably something demoralizing along the lines of _let’s just be friends_.

So he battles down all these feelings that don’t get him anywhere. What good is his supposedly infamous discipline if he can’t get control over some stupid crush? He even tries throwing himself at Ariadne—he liked girls well enough before he discovered how much fun boys can be—but he can’t convince his libido to cooperate.

He’s fucked—and not in the way he’d like to be.

 

  

After the Fischer job, Arthur is beyond exhausted and riding the edge of systemic shutdown. He tells himself he’ll take a long vacation from work and The Eames Issue.

He spends a week in Fiji, holed up in a beachfront cabin, resorting his emails and folding origami dinosaurs. He listens to old voice messages archived under _Pet_  and masturbates twice a day to that rolling cadence calling him “darling Arthur” and nagging him about inane work details.

By the end of the week, he takes a job in Melbourne even though it’s stupid as shit and pays less than his usual cut.


	2. ...I Sink Onto My Knees

A year later, Arthur finds himself in London, sitting across a table from Eames, and contemplates lobotomy.

“…shouldn’t be a problem. Just channel my second-cousin, Esme. She was a…”

It’s been a long time since he’s seen Eames, and he’s never seen him like this. The last year has definitely been good to Eames, and the body that has always made Arthur’s head spin is now broader, tighter, stronger. And the arms—oh, god, those arms are going to make him break something, someday.

“…imum wage, and it’s dreadful, really, what you yanks consider an appropriate workday…”

Hints of new ink tease him from the open collar of a truly horrid shirt patterned with seahorses. It honestly disturbs Arthur that he’s capable of this level of arousal while looking at that shirt.

“…asparagus, and are you even listening to me?”

“As much as I ever do,” he answers sincerely.

"Oh, ha bloody ha. Just remember, darling, _you_ called _me_ for this job. I was quite comfy where I was.”

“You were in Kennebunkport.”

"And I was comfy there. I’m very dashing in cable-knit jumpers, I’ll have you know. So, as I was saying, this all should be a piece of cake. Forge the maternally stalwart assistant, get the goods, we all go home a bit richer.”

He’s right, the job is a straight-forward, one-level extraction. Tech Company A wants insider info on Tech Company B, and there isn’t the slightest whiff of sub-security. Elementary-level stuff, which is good because Arthur can’t concentrate worth a damn. The year of distance has apparently eroded his resistance to Eames’ charm, and he almost believes it’s sincere. Or maybe he just really, really wants it to be sincere. Those dashing smiles and that sinful body are making him horny as a bonobos monkey, and it’s interfering with his work.

It starts with the daydreams. One minute, he’s listening to Reggie expound on the many reasons why the dream level _needs_ to be a zoo—despite all practical arguments to the contrary, and it’s not like no one has gone that route before, so there’s anecdote upon anecdote and numerous email exchanges supporting the opinion that this is a dumb idea—so, yes, Arthur is paying attention and focused until somewhere along the way he’s… just… not. Instead, he’s examining the way Eames’ new bulk strains the fabric of his pseudo-vintage shirt, threatening the inferior seam work and leaving little to the imagination.

Arthur knows Eames thinks he has no imagination, but he does. He _really_ does. Enough to visualize the contours of those shoulders without the interference of clothing. Enough imagination to recreate all the tattoos Arthur has seen over the years and imagine some new ones. Something whimsical and obscure that no one but Eames would ever permanently etch into their skin.

Arthur thinks about tracing those tattoos with his tongue and decides that glorious skin will taste sweeter on the parts that are inked. But the only way to know for sure will be to sample every inch of Eames’ naked body— _it’s for science!_ —with painstaking care. He may even need to create different conditions—wet, dry, streaked with Arthur’s come—and lick him head to toe over the course of several hours.

Reggie drops his laser pointer with a noisy clatter; the sound forcibly reminds Arthur that they’re in the middle of a meeting and that no one is licking anything. For the span two heartbeats, he’s disoriented. He has the image laid out so perfectly in his mind, that he’s startled to realize that Eames is not, in fact, naked. Is very much clothed and watching him with what can only be described as suspicion.

It happens again at the end of the day. Eames borrows a pen with an absentminded “thanks, pet” and that sends Arthur’s thoughts back to his week in Fiji. Only this time, instead of perving to innocuous recordings, he has his phone to his ear as Eames tells him, in excruciating detail, how to touch himself.

_“Slow it down, love. Can’t have you finishing too soon, can we? No, I’ve got plans for us. We’re going to be here all night, we are. Just you, me, and your hand on that beautiful cock. Give yourself another squeeze for me, there’s a love. Nice and slow. Hush, pet. I’ll get you there. I will. Just want to make you feel good, first. Make you feel so good. Just the tip, now. Roll your fingers around the head. Feel that? S’good? Get them nice and wet. Now reach down. Touch yourself. There. Yes. Now some more. Rub your own slick into that sweet little hole. Get it all messy for me. I’m going to need you hot and wet when I stretch you open and—“_

“…while it’s still open, so—"

“What?” Arthur realizes he yelled it when Eames stares at him with wide eyes.

Eames looks over his shoulder at the rest of the team before edging a little closer. He asks in a low voice, “Arthur, you been feeling okay?”

Arthur tries to swallow, but his throat is desert dry. “I’m fine. Sorry. I’m just…” He squirms in his chair, trying to adjust a painful erection without using his hands. “My mind wandered a bit. I’m fine. Now, what we’re you saying?”

Eames doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push. _Of course, he doesn’t,_ Arthur thinks bitterly. _Why would he?_

“I’m going to hit that chow mein shop around the corner while it’s still open. Do you want anything?”

“No. Thank you.”

After the third time it happens, Arthur checks his totem. The good news—he’s definitely awake. The bad news—with his heart racing and his dick wet, he can’t decide if the news is all that good.

 

 

For the first time in years, Arthur dreams naturally. At least, he thinks he does. He doesn’t really remember anything upon waking, which, for a lucid dreamer like him, is beyond discomforting. All he has are flashing images, residual feelings, but they’re enough for him to know that he dreams about Eames every night. Of course, waking up in his own spilled come could have told him that, too.

After the fourth dream, he stops sleeping through the night.

 

 

The job is creeping along like chilled molasses. Reggie insists that he needs more time to get the details just right, that he needs more data—which translates into endless hours spent poring over Nat Geo magazines and watching Discovery Channel. Reggie has him compiling inane statistical reports on the types of Saharan animals most likely to be found at a continental European zoo, and the variances of synthetic materials used to recreate aquatic habitats. Arthur tries to tell him that excruciating degrees of detail are neither needed nor recommended of an architect’s build, but their extractor and de facto leader—

_“He’s my sister’s boyfriend’s brother, Arthur. Just help the dude out.”_

—insists they’re perfectly on schedule, so no reason to not be thorough.

No one appreciates meticulousness more than Arthur, but another week of “thorough” and he might just snap, screw the plan, and visit the mark with a ski mask and a KA-BAR to get the information the old-fashioned way. Anything to end his torment.

Arthur is so tightly wound and perpetually aroused that he’s edgy and furious for no apparent reason. His already sketchy grasp of anger management goes right out the window, along with things like patience, decorum, and social filters. He snaps at the team for making too much noise. When they tiptoe around him, he berates them for not working hard enough. On Tuesday, he calls the barista at his favorite café a sackless wombat in need of a face transplant. Wednesday he gives himself papercuts thanks to overly aggressive filing methods, then curses up a storm because he’s bled all over his printouts.

He doesn’t yell at Eames. A small voice of self-preservation warns him that path leads to much danger and humiliation. But that doesn’t stop him from glaring and asking an endless stream of redundant questions for his files. He watches Eames grit his teeth in fake smiles and imagines those teeth gripping the back of his shoulder. He makes Eames run relentless practice levels with him, then spends the rest of the evening refusing to talk to anyone. Twice, he sneaks into the bathroom and furtively gets himself off while listening to Eames bitch about him through the door.

After a week of this, he stops coming in to work at all and communicates only through email.

 

* * *

 

Arthur eats yet another solitary dinner at his favorite London restaurant. The food is overpriced, but the staff have a way of making him feel like a local, and he finds himself coming back more often than his strident sense of caution normally allows. He lingers over his wine, just short of getting kicked out by the tired servers.

It’s late, and his car is parked on the far end of an unlit lot, but Arthur walks through the dark without concern. Fear is too pedestrian for someone who started his career by dying twelve times a day. Of course, it could also be said that Arthur is… distracted. So he could be forgiven for failing to notice the shadow trailing him until it slams him against the side of his car.

He fights back instinctively, even though he recognizes his attacker almost instantly. He swings his fist around, connecting squarely with a stubbly jaw and earning himself a knee to the gut followed by a hand around his throat. Arthur can more than hold his own in a fight, but Eames outweighs him by at least twenty pounds, and he doesn’t want to cause any real damage. It doesn’t help that all the spare blood in his body has seen fit to betray him by pooling in his groin. As sexually starved as he is, all it takes is close proximity to that hard body to make his dick quiver. And, god help him, he’s always gotten off on sparring with Eames.

Torn between flustered arousal and anger, Arthur will always choose anger. “What the _fuck_ is your problem?”

Thankfully, Eames’ attention is well-above the belt line, peering into Arthur’s eyes like he’s measuring his pupils or some shit. “I’d rather like to ask you the same thing, mate. It’s not like you to be this twitchy. _Shit._ ” Eames catches the next punch with his free hand and holds Arthur’s arm back against the car. “For days on end, you’ve—for fuck’s sake, quit squirming—you’ve been a right twat to be around, and—fucking _ow!_ —pushing even your heights for dickishness. And it’s positively not like you to let someone get the drop in a dark car park. So I’m asking _you_ … what the fuck?”

“Eames, so help me…” Arthur continues to struggle until Eames is forced to release the choke hold or else risk taking things to a higher level. He lets go but doesn’t move back, staying so far across the line of Arthur’s personal space that he can feel the heat build between their bodies. Temper, embarrassment, and arousal are crossing wires in his brain. He’s practically vibrating with the stress of it all and wonders if the other man can see it.

“Listen here, Arthur. There is something up with you, don’t try and tell me there isn’t. Think I haven’t noticed you checking your totem every hour? To say nothing of how you all but disappeared on us. I’ve been watching you go not-so-quietly around the bend for weeks, but no more,” he emphasizes with a finger pointed in Arthur’s face. “This—whatever this is—ends now.”

Arthur bats the hand away and fixes a sneer on his lips. “Are you really giving me ultimatums, Mr. Eames?”

Eames just stares at him implacably. “Tell me what’s going on. Or I’m burning the job.”

“Jesus fuckin’—lay off, will you? I’m fine.” But he can’t hold eye contact.

“You think I didn’t learn a long time ago what ‘fine’ from you really means?”

“Why are we having this conversation? Better, why are you following me? And _I’m_ supposed to be the one with a problem?”

“Christ on a crutch.” Even in the dark, Arthur can still see Eames roll his eyes. “Arthur, will you just talk to me? After scraping through Cobb’s special bout of crazy, you can’t think I’m about to let _you_ of all people go down that same path.”

Something in that statement—Arthur will reflect on it much later, when he’s in a much, much calmer state of mind—flips a switch inside of him and loosens a maelstrom of repressed feelings. If Eames so eagerly wants to know _what the fuck…_ “You won’t, will you? Well, that’s just fucking fantastic seeing as how it’s _your_ fucking fault in the first place, you goddamn motherfucking piece of shit.” He slams the heal of his palm against Eames’ chest, knocking him back a few steps.

The ferocity behind the attack, physical and verbal, catches Eames by surprise. “I—what?” But this time, Arthur is the one with his finger pointed in someone’s face.

“Yes! You! You with your mothershitting cocksucker mouth and batting your eyelashes every chance you get. What? Are you _surprised?_ Is it really that shocking to hear that you get my dick harder than a tire iron every time you fucking talk? You’ve only spent the last decade _cockteasing_ me until now I can’t think straight because I’m too motherfucking _distracted_ , daydreaming about how you’ll look with my come dripping off that smug-ass face of yours, and now I can barely work because I keep seeing you naked, and I’m losing track of where I am and what I’m doing, and I can’t _do_ this, Eames.” Arthur hears the sob in his own voice, but he can’t stop the flow of words now that he’s finally let it all come to surface. “I can’t lose myself like this. Not again. I can’t—“ he shakes his head, pushing the memories down. “This is my work. This is _what I am_. And you’re fucking my shit up, so don’t you _dare_ get in my face and tell me what you will and won’t _let_ me do.”

The torrent ends abruptly, leaving a silently stunned Eames in its wake. Arthur stares back, panting, before his mind catches up with what all just came out of his mouth. _“Fuck!”_ He squeezes his eyes shut and prays this is just another daydream. Hallucination. Whatever.

“Ah. Right, then. I…” A dry cough. “That is to say…” This time a sigh. “Bloody hell, pet, I had no idea you felt… any of that. Why didn’t you ever—“

Arthur opens his eyes again if only to glare at the stupidity of that question.“Ever what? Say something?” He scoffs. “Look, I realize I’ve given every impression of having lost my mind, but give me some credit.”

Eames frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means—fuck it. For as long as we’ve known each other, you’ve made it painfully obvious that I’m…”

“What?”

He searches for the least-pathetic way to say it, but his mind is too wrung out for eloquence. “Not up to your standards.”

Eames looks at him with confusion first, then dawning horror. “No, pet,” he breathes. “No, no, no, no. That’s never…” He reaches out but lets his hands drop back to his sides before making contact. “That’s not what I think, at all. Never has been.”

“Then what?” he ask, dubiously.

That beautiful mouth quirks up at the corner. “Specificity, then?”

Which startles a laugh out of him. “Yeah. Why not.” And he’s still dubious but cautiously intrigued when Eames eases back into his personal space.

“Specifically, love, I think you’re wonderful. Current assholery notwithstanding, of course. Simply wonderful.” Eames takes Arthur’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “And brave, and mad, and brilliant, and so incredibly gorgeous it breaks my heart to look at you.” Their eyes meet, gazes caught on one another, and Arthur feels his pulse quicken. “You’re so incredible, my darling Arthur. How can you not know that I’ve been crazy about you for years?”

And after weeks—years—of reining in his feelings, the sincerity and _craving_ in those eyes snap Arthur’s fragile control, and, suddenly, he can’t wait another second to suck on that mouth.

There are no pleasantries. No _hello, let me get to know you_ pecks or coy little nibbles. There’s heat and wet and teeth sinking into his lower lip. There’s a solid body against his, and Arthur’s fingers in Eames’ hair. A tight grip on his ass pulling him close. Hardening cocks rubbing together and finding exquisite friction through infuriating layers of clothes. This isn’t a first kiss, it’s a claiming.

Eames breaks off, gasping. “You really want this.”

“You have no idea.” Arthur presses his mouth against Eames’ throat, sucking hard enough to elicit a groan, ruts shamelessly against one of those hard thighs.

“Then show me.”

_God, yes._

Arthur runs his hands over those broad shoulders, rakes his fingers along the thick muscles of Eames’ back. Maps every dip and bulge, until he can match muscle memory with the images seared into his dreams.

When he can’t stand it anymore, he grabs at the hem of Eames’ tee shirt and yanks, but his blood-starved brain can’t figure out how to get the shirt off without removing his mouth from Eames’ body. He gives up and goes for the button and zipper of Eames’ jeans, instead. And bless Eames for being a kinky bastard who doesn’t wear underwear. Arthur gets his hand on Eames’ erection with record-setting speed, humming appreciatively over the heavy weight in his palm. Arthur jacks that thick cock and muffles his own wanton moans by trailing bites along Eames’ neck.

“Ah, god. Feels so good. Lemme—“ Eames returns the favor by taking two good handfuls of Arthur’s shirt and pops half the buttons off in one pull.

Arthur growls around the earlobe caught between his teeth. “This is a four-hundred dollar shirt, asshole.”

Eames yanks the tails of his shirt out of his trousers and dispenses with the rest of the buttons so that he can drag his hands down the exposed line of Arthur’s torso. “I’m worth it.”

Arthur laughs despite himself. “Fuck, yes. You are. Worth every penny.” Then Arthur drops to his knees and doesn’t waste any time getting that hot length as deep into his mouth as he can. He works the foreskin down and rubs his tongue in tight circles against the head, in time with Eames’ chants of _fuck, Arthur_. Precome instantly pools on the tip. He licks it clean and sucks out more. Eames shoves one hand into Arthur’s hair and wraps the other around the back of his neck. Using his grip to hold Arthur’s head still, Eames thrusts carefully into his mouth. All the while, a litany of erotic babble spills forth.

“Just like that. Stay just like that. It’s too good, won’t last long if you keep—christ, yes, your mouth. You’re so beautiful with my dick in your mouth. Bloody hell. So good at this. Never dreamed you’d want it like this. Suck it harder— _fuck_. Yes. You’d suck me dry if I let you, wouldn’t you? Ah, fuck, yes. _Yes. Fuck, y—“_

Arthur pulls off, stopping Eames’ orgasm in its tracks and causing him to stumble, wild-eyed. “Jesus, Arthur. You bastard.”

Arthur gets back up to his feet, unapologetic. “You’re not allowed to come until I have your dick in my ass.”

Eames stares blankly at him a split second before he takes Arthur by the shoulders and throws him against the car. Crowds in against him, kissing him like he’s trying to steal the taste of himself from Arthur’s tongue. He tears into Arthurs pants and yanks on the expensive material until Arthur’s aching erection pushes into his hand. “M’fraid we’re not going to make it to your hotel room, love.”

 _Oh, thank god._ “Here. Now. Fuck me right now.”

“Easy, love.” Eames gets down in front of Arthur and pins him against the car by the hips. He nuzzles his face against Arthur’s cock, licking at the tip almost delicately. It feels incredible, but Arthur feels like he’s been hard for days, and if he doesn’t get fucked soon, he’s going to do something very bad.

_“Eames.”_

“Hush, sweetheart. I just need to touch you for a bit.” And then there’s wet heat swallowing him down to the base. He can feel Eames’ throat fluttering around the head of his cock and pants shakily.

Right then, he hears voices from the other side of the parking lot. A group of laughing twenty-somethings walking to their car. Arthur imagines what they’ll see if they look over. He and Eames are in the shadows, but you don’t need a lot of detail to know when one man is sucking another man off in a public place. He threads both hands through Eames’ hair and thrusts against his face, making no effort to muffle his harsh breathing. The twenty-somethings pile into Volvo and drive off.

Arthur uses his grip on Eames’ hair to pull back his head. “Goddamnit Eames, put your cock in me.”

“Can’t,” gasped against the bare skin of his belly. “Can’t. Don’t have—“

“My wallet.”

Eames looks up and rewards him with a smile. “Of course, you have.”

Eames fishes Arthur’s wallet out of his slacks and removes the condom and small packet of lube that Arthur habitually keeps on him, even though he hasn’t had sex since Australia. And now… He snatches the condom out of Eames’ hand and tosses it into the shadows. “No.”

“You sure? I’m clean, but we should—”

“I want your come in me. I want to feel you for _days._ ”

“Fuck, pet. You’re killing me.” Eames stands, spins him around, and yanks back on his hips. Arthur braces his hands against the car and widens his stance. He feels warm hands spreading him, exposing him to the night air right before hot, wet pressure against his hole.

“Oh, god. Ohgodohgod, oh,  _christ._ ” No one has done this to him before, but he’s thought about it. Christ, has he thought about it. And now Eames has that indecent mouth and sinful tongue pressed against his ass and is licking, sucking, fucking into him, and it’s the most deliciously dirty thing he’s ever felt.

Then it’s slick fingers—the stretch is too good to be just one—opening him up, making him ready. He feels Eames graze his prostate, just an explorative caress, but it’s enough to make his arms shake. Arthur lets off a strangled moan when another stroke presses against those swollen nerves.

“Shh, pet. Easy. Just let me in.” More lube, more fingers. Arthur can’t tell if Eames stops at three. He can only feel the burn, the tightening of his balls. “Let me give you what you want.”

The first push of Eames’ cock is impossibly, incredibly thick. Arthur feels his body resisting despite himself, the reflexive need to escape that inexorable fullness no matter how much he’s dying for it. Eames just pins him down with a hand between his shoulder blades and relentlessly moves against him, muttering filth into his ear. “Fuck. Come on. Yes. So good. You can take more. Yes, _yes._ Like that. Take it all, there’s a love.” Eames fucks into him an inch at a time, working him open, until Eames is pressed fully against his back. Arthur can feel him trembling. “God, Arthur. Can’t believe you—so good. So fucking tight.”

His head is spinning, and realizes he’d stopped breathing somewhere along the way. “S’been a while.”

“Yeah?” Eames gives a him an explorative thrust. A slow drag that has Arthur biting his lip, followed by gentle pulses. “Find that hard to… hard to believe. Tasty creature like you. God. Tell me you don’t have all the boys ‘n’ girls lined up, just—fuck—just waiting to take care of your needs.”

Arthur reaches back with one hand, takes Eames' hip in a desperate grip. Lifts off a bit. Slams back onto that cock and makes Eames cry out. “None of them are you.”

Eames fucks him in earnest, then, leaning and grunting into each thrust, moving deeply. Arthur’s sweaty palm slips on the slick car metal and he slaps his other hand back down for leverage. He tries to push back into the thrusts, but in the end can only brace himself and take it. Then Eames shifts his hold, grabs Arthur’s hips with two bruising hands, and unerringly hits that hot spot inside him.

Arthur’s mind whites out. He can’t track what’s happening. His reality collapses into the microcosm of the thick cock in his ass, the slamming pressure against his prostate, his voice breaking on Eames’ name. It’s consuming, the pleasure, rocketing him to the precipice of orgasm and holding him there in spine-tingling agony, sobbing. “Eames. I can’t—I need you. I need—“

And then Eames’ hand is on his neglected cock, squeezing and stroking in devastating counterpoint to the thrust of his hips. Frantic mouth biting at his neck, leaving bruises wherever he can reach. “I’ve got you. Fuck, love. Come on. Come for me. Wanna feel it. Gonna fill you up—“

The world explodes. Arthur screams into the back of his hand and comes and comes for ages. Eames fucks and fists him through the climax, wringing every last drop from his oversensitive cock, pushing him to the boundaries of sanity. Just when he’s about to beg, Eames wraps both arms around his hips and grinds in. “Yes, yes, fuck _yes,_ Arthur, _fuck._ ”

He can feel the pulse of Eames filling him, like an aftershock of his own orgasm. He automatically clenches and feels a corresponding twitch from the still-hard cock pressed deep inside him.

“Christ, darling, don’t do that.”

“Can’t help it. You feel too good.”

Eames gives a wrecked, breathy little laugh. He rolls his hips in gentle waves, milking the last bits of pleasure before withdrawing.

Without his hold, Arthur’s legs buckle. He just manages to twist and land with his back against the car instead of his face on the pavement. He probably falls onto his own come but couldn’t care less. That’s nothing compared to the heat of Eames’ jizz easing down his thighs. After a second, Eames flops next to him, shoulders crashing together. One or both of them is shivering. He can’t tell. They fix their clothing in silence—not much can be done about Arthur’s shirt, but fuck it—and stare off into the shadows.

Arthur watches him through a sidelong glance. This, he didn’t expect. Eames is fidgeting with his hands, looking everywhere but at him. Acting bashful, of all things, as if he hadn’t just pounded Arthur into a mind-bending orgasm. It’s a novel experience, this shy man that has taken over the brazen fool he’s known for a decade. Novel, but unsettling.

Arthur is just about to put Eames of out his misery when he gets beaten to the punch. Eames coughs a little, turns to face Arthur with outward calm. “And now?”

Arthur moves in closer. “Now we go back to my hotel and fuck like chickens.”

“Oh, yeah?” And there’s a world of possibilities in those two words.

He smiles, employing his dimples full bore. “Definitely yeah.” He leans forward and gives Eames the slow, gentle kiss he was too frantic for, earlier. “Come on, Mr. Eames. Show me if you can take it as well as you can give it.” Parking lot sex is fun, but he wants Eames in his bed. He has a mental list—a mile long and years in the making—of things he’s going to do to him, and many of them require a cushioned surface.

 

 

Eames still hasn’t lost his uncharacteristic reserve and is silent most of the way back to Arthur’s hotel. Finally, he shifts about in his seat and turns to watch Arthur drive. “So…chickens. That’s a thing, then?

“I once spent three months on my uncle’s farm in Idaho.” Arthur shudders. “It’s a thing.”

That perks Eames up. “You on a farm? Did you wear overalls and a straw hat? _Darling_. Tell me there were plaid shirts and wellies, or you’ll break my heart.”

Arthur flashes him a smile. “Hush. I’m still not over the trauma, and I want to get it up at least twice more before morning.”

The saucy retort he expects doesn’t come. Eames has fallen quiet on him again, looking at him like they’ve never met before. After a minute, Arthur is exasperated and maybe, possibly a little bit worried that Eames is regretting this whole thing. “What?”

“Arthur… you’re _flirting_ with me.” Like that’s some kind of revelation. Arthur laughs, feeling calmer than he has for far longer than he can remember.

“I’ve been flirting with you for years, Mr. Eames. But thank you for noticing.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "You Put a Spell On Me" by Devil Doll.
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


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